


wait, paws

by matskreider



Series: whiskers and wingers [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Cats, Gen, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 11:24:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11850570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matskreider/pseuds/matskreider
Summary: Patrice yanks his foot back, peering into his skate with wide eyes.A small - really, was that normal? - brown kitten claws its way out of the skate, meowing pointedly right at Patrice. It’s grey-blue eyes seem intensely focused for a split second, before it turns around, looking to face the entire room. Seeing everyone there, the kitten seems torn between searching for more friends - and therefore more attention - or sinking back into the skate, where it was dark and safe.“Um…” Pasta so eloquently states from the other side of the room. “Is that who I think it is?”“Marchy?” Patrice asks.The kitten whirls back around again, twisting it’s legs up and falling a little in the skate. It meows again, sharp claws digging into the padding inside the skate, tugging briefly before digging in again.“Okay, okay, before you shred the skate,” Patrice mutters, gently fishing the kitten out of the skate. Immediately, the kitten climbs up his chest, digging its claws into the practice jersey, and nestles into his shoulder, purring loudly.(marchy's a kitten. it goes about as well as anyone expects.)





	wait, paws

**Author's Note:**

  * For [antoineroussel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/antoineroussel/gifts).



> so despite me having absolutely no knowledge of the bruins at all, this wanted to be written because of a post of a kitten hiding in a tissue box and scaring her owners. i sent it to eliza saying that that would be marchy as a kitten and now....here we are.
> 
> unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine. (and eliza's, for encouraging me.)

Just because it’s common in the league, doesn’t mean it’s any less weird. 

Occasionally, when under extreme duress - be it physical, emotional, or mental - people turn into animals. That’s understood. Usually the other form runs in families and is passed down genetically. Other times, it’s reflective of the personality of the affected individual. Either way, there’s nothing all that strange about it. 

What’s strange is the sheer commonality of said transformations in the league. Professional athletes tended to shift more often than others did, but for some reason, hockey was one that had an extremely high amount of shifting. Come to think of it, it might have been tied with baseball, for reasons unknown.

Every single guy had shifted in his career at some point. Maybe it was during a Cup run, maybe it was during a painful stretch of games - hell, it might have coincided with an injury (which was never fun for the training staff, nor the player involved.)

Except this time, it was different. Different because they had just come back from their bye week, and there was no reason to be all that stressed out. 

But when Patrice went to put on his skate, still (ironically) engrossed in a conversation with Z about where Marchy could be, there’s a sharp meow of protest. Patrice yanks his foot back, peering into his skate with wide eyes. 

A small - really, was that normal? - brown kitten claws its way out of the skate, meowing pointedly right at Patrice. It’s grey-blue eyes seem intensely focused for a split second, before it turns around, looking to face the entire room. Seeing everyone there, the kitten seems torn between searching for more friends - and therefore more attention - or sinking back into the skate, where it was dark and safe.

“Um…” Pasta so eloquently states from the other side of the room. “Is that who I think it is?” 

“Marchy?” Patrice asks. 

The kitten whirls back around again, twisting it’s legs up and falling a little in the skate. It meows again, sharp claws digging into the padding inside the skate, tugging briefly before digging in again. 

“Okay, okay, before you shred the skate,” Patrice mutters, gently fishing the kitten out of the skate. Immediately, the kitten climbs up his chest, digging its claws into the practice jersey, and nestles into his shoulder, purring loudly. 

Patrice just looks up at Z with a helpless expression on his face. “Should we tell Cassidy?” 

“Going to have to, at this point. But we’re going to be late,” his captain answers. Patrice can tell just from the reluctance in his tone, that Chara’s weakness for anything smaller than the average person - including Brad even when he was human, much to his chagrin - was in full swing at the sight of the small purring kitten. 

“Alright, lets go.” Patrice stands, and the kitten - really, he should start thinking of him as his teammate by now - startles at the movement. But soon after he settles back down, content to just hitch a ride on Patrice’s shoulder the entire way. 

“Wait, no, you need to stay here,” he insists, trying to gently free Marchy from his shoulder. But Marchy isn’t having any of it, and digs his claws in, anchoring himself to the padding beneath the jersey. He opens his mouth and hisses, rows of tiny kitten teeth visible. 

It startles Patrice, just from how close he is to his face, but that’s enough leeway that Marchy needs, apparently. He scampers down Patrice’s back, jumping from the curve of his ass back into his stall, sitting primly where he’d just been. 

Apparently he’d wanted to get down of his own volition.

“Are you done, now?” Patrice asks, staring down at the little brown mass of fur.

The smugness radiating from him was probably too much for just one body to hold, but as of right now, it was what he was getting.

* * *

Cassidy takes the information in stride, as he’s wont to do when it comes to Brad Marchand. “As long as someone takes care of him until he’s back to normal, it should be fine. But don’t look at me. I’m allergic.”

Though it could have been a flimsy excuse, their coach was right. They can’t just keep Marchy at the rink, and he sure as hell can’t get back home by himself. (How he’d gotten to the Garden was a mystery in and of itself.) 

Though he’d been good while they’d been elsewhere in the building - moderately so, after he’d climbed into a basket of clean towels and shed fur all over them, then proceeded to try and get into the ventilation system to explore, much to the chagrin of the equipment guys - they weren’t about to leave him there for the rest of the day.

“Why not? He’s a cat, don’t cats just sleep all day anyway?” Kruger asks. 

“Does he  _ look  _ like he’s running out of energy?” Patrice asks, gesturing to where Marchy was busy playing around with Adam’s laces. 

He flops on his back as he catches one, part of it wrapped around a paw, his back legs kicking at it while he tries to bite the string into submission. When that position gets tiring, he flips back over onto his paws and launches himself into attacking the whole shoe at once. 

Adam just looks on with a soft smile, characteristic of almost everything he does. 

“Okay, so someone has to bite the bullet and take him home.” 

“I can do it,” Adam offers softly. “I mean, he’s already over here, so.” 

“Do you even  _ know  _ how to take care of a cat?” 

“I mean, it’s still Marchy. Give him water, I might have some tuna he could have. It’s just for the afternoon, right?” Adam asks.

Patrice shrugs. “As long as he’s fine with it, I don’t see why not. Just don’t let him get hurt or anything, and try not to rile him up further. He’s supposed to be relaxing and destressing, not…” He just gestures to Marchy’s current activity of trying to loosen all the laces with just his teeth. 

“Maybe this is him destressing?” Adam offers as he leans down, extending his hand to the playful kitten. Marchy hops away from the hand at first, before slowly creeping forward, little nose working a mile a minute to make sure that there isn’t anything sneaky or underhanded about this particular offer. A few moments pass with baited breath, until he decides all is fine and promptly headbutts the offered fingers, letting out a little squeaky purr as he looks for affection.

Patrice lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “If he starts eating your curtains, don’t be afraid to full name him.” 

“You and I both know he likes getting into trouble,” Adam replies, gently petting the ball of fur, before reaching down with his other hand. “I need to pick you up, man, is that okay?” 

Marchy, seemingly pleased by the search for consent, jumps into the offered hands, continuing to purr. Adam holds him against his chest as he stands up, and offers a shrug at Patrice. “I’ll text you if we need anything. Should I bring him back here for the game?” 

“If he’s a human, definitely. If he’s still like that...sure, why not. We can keep him in the box, I guess,” Patrice offers. Usually shifts like these are seen way ahead of time, like what happened with Seguin during his days on the team, or Kessel up in Toronto, or even Hagelin in Anaheim. 

Not right before practice after a week off. 

The whole situation is strange, but Patrice can’t afford to keep dawdling. He’s got a pre-game schedule to keep, so he bids goodbye to Adam and heads out, hoping that it all resolves itself by game time.

* * *

Okay so it doesn’t resolve itself by game time, in fact it’s probably indefinitely worse. While Marchy knows and understands that he can’t be seen by the public like this - and  _ definitely  _ shouldn’t be caught on camera - it doesn’t stop him from climbing up into Tuukka’s face right before the start of the game.

The goalie stares down the kitten, and everyone else in the room waits with baited breath. It’s not polite to fuck with anyone else’s head space before a game, to say the least, even if Marchy’s role is usually hype man and comedic relief. But it’s  _ never  _ a good idea to go after a goalie. 

_ Especially  _ if your goalie is Tuukka Rask. 

But this little kitten knows no fear, and instead rests his forehead right against Tuukka’s nose. Even his ever twitching tail falls still, the end curled slightly in a friendly position. It’s an almost tender moment, were it not for the bewildered expression on the goalie’s face. 

“What the  _ actual  _ fuck-” 

Patrice comes over and gently removes Marchy from the goalie’s front. “He’ll apologize when he can speak again, but I’m apologizing for him now,” he explains, tucking Marchy close to his chest. 

Tuukka just hums in reply, and Patrice takes it for what it is. 

If that had been the end of it, it would have been okay. The first period goes about as good as any team’s would after a week off. 

But when Cassidy comes in to give an intermission pep-talk between the first and second, Marchy sees fit to sit right between his feet, staring out at the room. If it were possible for a 9 inch long kitten to look disappointed in a room full of hockey players, that was very much what was happening here. When Cassidy finally finishes, there’s a brief lull between his speech and the rise of chatter around that room. In that lull, a very loud, very  _ opinionated  _ meow sounds in the room. 

The meowing continues as the kitten jogs over to Adam’s shin, headbutting purposefully. He continues to chatter, pacing back and forth dangerously close to the newly sharpened blades. 

Adam just stares down at the pacing kitten, trying to pull his feet out of the way, but Marchy keeps coming closer, until he goes up on his back paws to make his point known. 

“I think he’s trying to tell you to play scrappier,” Pasta stage-whispers.

“Oh you think so?” Adam replies, bemused and amused. 

Pasta nods sagely, and Adam shrugs.

But then he goes on to take the damn cat’s advice, and faces a 5 minute penalty with 5 minutes left to go in the period, the Bruins down by 2. Patrice drops his head and resists the urge to scream into his hands. They have 25 minutes to make this up, but without Marchy - and now, without Quaider - there’s pretty much nothing they can do until the third. 

In that next intermission, Marchy is nowhere to be found in the locker room, and from his body language, Patrice can tell Adam feels personally responsible. Cassidy avoids talking about their fine furry friend, but they all know there’s a reason Marchy’s been removed from the situation. 

In the end, they manage to drag it to OT, where they claw in a win. It tastes as bitter as it feels, but everyone loves a comeback story, right? A few guys give the media what they’re looking for, a few quotes about how “it feels so good to be back” and “it was a rough start, but we got pucks deep and it all worked out.” Patrice is one such guy, so by the time he’s showered off and is grabbing the last of his clothes, he doesn’t expect the extra weight in his jacket pocket.

“Marchy?” he asks, redundantly, as he feels the weight squirming of it’s own volition, and then two little brown ears poke out of the pocket in question. “Of course, who else could it be,” he mutters to himself. 

There’s a squeak from his jacket, and Patrice sighs, tugging a hat on over his head. “I take it this means you want me to take care of you tonight?” he asks. 

Now Marchy’s pulled his whole head out of the pocket, and the narrowed eyes he fixes Patrice with speak volumes on their own. He gives a purposeful purr, and Patrice pinches the bridge of his nose. “I hate you, do you know that,” he asks, but still reaches down to pet at Marchy’s ears anyway.

Marchy stays in his lap the whole drive back to his place, and then insists on having some of Patrice’s post-game food, even though Patrice is pretty sure none of it could be safe for cats. Then again, hopefully Marchy wouldn’t be a cat again for much longer. 

The longest a shift lasted in the season was 2 days, and they didn’t have a game tomorrow, so hopefully he’d be back to normal within 24 hours. It’s with thoughts of Marchy returning to himself that Patrice finally finds comfort in the situation. While taking on an animal form was supposed to help calm people down, with the sudden change in sensory input, sometimes it could only compound the issue. That was when people ran the risk of being stuck in a change, unable to properly relax enough to change back. 

There were some drugs that could be administered to force a change back, but getting ahold of them was incredibly difficult, though Patrice knew from experience that sometimes those drugs found their way into the NHL more than once, pushing players to come back too soon.

The Penguins and Candiens would know a lot about that.

He sets a small bowl of water out on the floor for Marchy, if he needed it during the night, and then turned off the lights and collapsed into bed. He could vaguely hear Marchy padding around, light as he was, but it wasn’t enough to keep him awake.

* * *

Patrice is woken up by a weight on his shoulder, concentrated in four distinct parts. At first, his mind is a little fuzzy, and he immediately thinks someone has their hand on him. But then he registers purring, and sharp pains as claws pass through his sleep shirt into his skin, and he remembers about his little guest.

As he shifts a bit, lightning flashes, silent in the snowy night. Marchy skitters off of his arm, accidentally cutting deeper than before with one of his claws. Patrice hisses at the sting - he’s pretty sure there will be blood, if he woke up enough to go to the bathroom and check. 

But there’s a warm furry body wiggling beneath the covers to curl up near his chest, the anxious purring continuing. Patrice hadn’t known Marchy to be scared of storms before, but then again, as a cat, his senses were all rewired. It made sense that he was scared, and when Patrice looked down at him, he saw wide eyes and ears pinned back. At least, when the lighting struck he could. The pale blue light did little to illuminate under his covers, but Patrice could feel Marchy’s little tremors. Purring could only account for some of his shaking. 

He puts an arm over the shaking kitten, tucking Marchy up under his bicep, and presses a little kiss to his pinned back ears. 

“T’es bien chaton,” he murmurs, already feeling himself falling back asleep as he settles himself against his pillow. “Tu vas bien.” 

Little purrs and a grateful lick against his arm are the only answers he stays awake long enough to hear.

* * *

When Patrice next wakes up, there is a very naked Bradley Kevin Marchand lying next to him in bed. Or, rather, behind him. Somehow in the night, maybe as Marchy turned back into his human self, Patrice had rolled over and more or less wound up the little spoon with a bed mate who went to sleep at only 9 inches long.

Now, at 5’9”, he’s still small, but not as small as before. 

Patrice just tries not to think about how good it feels. He wishes he could go back to sleep and revel in the feeling some more; maybe wake up and talk to Marchy about what made him so stressed out he shifted back like this, probably make him breakfast and pretend that waking up next to a naked Marchy was something that happened normally. 

But it wasn’t. None of this was normal. And now…

Now he really needs to get up. 

As he tries to sneak one leg out from under the covers, he feels Marchy tightening his grip, keeping him from moving. He’s not sure if he’s awake or just acting out of reflex, so he tries again, only to be met with more resistance and a frustrated grumble. 

“Marchy?” he ventures to ask. 

He feels it when Marchy tenses up behind him, before trying and failing to pretend that he was still asleep. 

Patrice gives him the dignity to pretend, and slips out of bed, Marchy’s arms finally loose enough to do so. He heads downstairs to the kitchen to start the coffee before coming back up to get ready for the day. By the time he comes out of the bathroom, Marchy’s feigning waking up for the first time. The covers rest midway down his stomach, and when he yawns and stretches, Patrice forces himself to look away. 

“Good morning,” he says, fiddling with his watch. “Sleep well?” 

“Mmhmm. Your bed is easily in my top five,” Marchy answers, smirking at him, half of his face obscured by his bicep. 

“Glad to know I’m still at the top of your list.” Patrice grabs his phone and fires off a text to Z, letting him know that they have their winger back. “Help yourself to any of my clothes. You want a ride back to your place first?” 

“Is my car still at the rink?” 

“Think so.” 

“Then I’ll just mooch off of you for a little bit.” 

“If you’re going to do that, you’re going to have to actually get up so we can get to practice on time.” 

Marchy groans but throws the covers back. As he does so, Patrice throws a pair of sweats and a t-shirt at him. 

“What, no underwear?” Marchy calls as Patrice leaves the room.

“You know where it is if you want it,” Patrice answers. “We’re actually going to be late, get in gear.” 

It doesn’t take that long for them to get on the road, a mug of coffee for them both. Patrice steels himself, peeking out of the corner of his eye to check on his teammate. Marchy doesn’t seem to be all that stressed anymore, serenely sipping his coffee, if not really knowing what to do with his hands without a phone. 

“Z says that all your stuff’s either in your car or your locker,” Patrice offers softly. “No one messed with it, I don’t think.” 

“Hm.”

The non-committal answer does little to convince Patrice that he’s actually feeling good. “Can I ask a question?” 

“You just did,” Marchy replies, looking over at Patrice with a grin that has too much teeth. 

“What made you shift?” 

The smile disappears, and he looks back out the windshield. “Maybe wanting to get another shot at a Cup run. Same old, same old.” 

“You don’t know?” 

“I know that I’m human now and I’d rather like to get back out with my boys.” The words effectively end the conversation. 

Patrice knows that he should probably dig a little deeper, but he also knows that if he does he runs the risk of having Marchy shut him out for a good chunk of time. And that’s not a risk he’s willing to take. So he sits back and lets the silence of the drive stretch out between them. After a few moments of silence, he looks over at Marchy, trying to gauge his reaction. 

The winger finally relaxed back against his seat again, watching the traffic outside the window as they drove through Boston. 

They’d be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> there's probably more of this verse kicking around in my head tbh, but i'm not sure if it's going to come out at all or not. this itself was sort of a one off but if y'all like it, let me know? 
> 
> also excuse my google translated french, but basically bergy tells marchy that he's okay/everything's going to be okay.
> 
> and hmu on [tumblr.](http://eddieluongo.tumblr.com/)


End file.
